“Is everything all right?” Flannery asked from two seats away.
“I’ll explain while we go back to the terminal,” he said. “Just sit tight.”
“Easier said,” Flannery remarked, leaning back gently and looking at the team without seeing them. Volner saw no enthusiasm, only concern—and discomfort. Even leaning back had caused him to wince.
“Trouble?” Bankole asked.
“Not if you prefer paintball to checkers,” Volner replied. “We’re flying north to intercept what may be the Ukrainian strike team.”
“Op-Center’s been busy,” Bankole said.
“It’s McCord—and he’s only about fifty percent sure,” Volner said.
“Is it that or is something else bothering you?”
“It’s the bullshit,” Volner said. He jerked his head toward the terminal. “I got a bunch of double-talk back there, about us being watchers but with the discretion to terminate.”
“We were always going in armed.”
“For self-defense,” Volner said. “We have zero instructions about how to handle a Ukrainian attack against Russia.”
“We’ve got time to consider that,” Bankole said.
“Yeah. We do.” His expression was steel. “We’ll have to.”
Bankole regarded the man as he looked back at the tablet and the map. “Mind if I ask you something personal?”
“Shoot.”
“Mission creep has happened to me before,” he said “and you, too, I’m sure. How much of your last mission is spilling into this?”
Volner nodded in acknowledgment. “A lot. I can handle a change-up. Hell, I expect it. Still, we lost Rodriguez and he was top-of-the-line. I can’t speak for you, but the ambassador—he’s a concern.”
“Then we leave him behind.”
“I need a translator.”
“Then I’ll look after him, make sure we’re accessible,” Bankole said.
Volner didn’t look up and he didn’t have to say what was in his appreciative but humorless half smile: Bankole and Flannery were the walking wounded, one a theoretically recovered but untested veteran leading an older, wounded diplomat who had never seen combat. It was not a situation he could take far into the field.
But he thanked Bankole and expanded something on the map.
Looking at it, the intelligence director said one word: “Shit!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Watergate Hotel, Washington, D.C.
June 3, 11:08 PM
Chase Williams hadn’t realized where he was standing until Anne asked what “that” was behind his head. He raised his eyes from the tablet and looked behind him.
“Shower curtain,” he said, turning from the sparkling expanse of white and walking back into the bedroom.
The Watergate complex is renowned for many things, infamous for one. Named for its location on the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal—“the Grand Old Ditch”—construction began in 1963, was completed in 1971, and a year later it was the site of the Democratic National Committee burglary that led to the downfall of President Richard Nixon. Williams lived in the residential section known as Watergate South. He had a view of the lower Potomac River. After two years, he could count on one hand the number of times he had seen the water in daylight.
Williams had come home to shower and clear his head, take care of the cat, then return to Op-Center. He had abandoned those plans, except for the cat, and had been about to head back to his office when McCord called. The two men had already spoken a few minutes earlier to “fine-tune the deployment,” as McCord had put it, though both knew the mission had become more than that. Williams had paused to text Matt Berry, and now McCord was calling back with Volner’s concerns. Anne had joined them after putting in motion arrangements for the JSOC team to fly to Ukraine. She had the aircraft but was waiting to hear back from a city official in Sumy before finalizing the flight.
“Roger was just telling me that he got pushback from Volner,” Williams told her.
“But they’re going,” McCord added.
“You knew they would,” Anne said.
“We all did,” Williams clarified. “Roger was just the messenger. And however we describe it internally, when I tell Berry and Berry tells Midkiff, the bottom line is that what began as a plan to move through eastern Ukraine, taking the temperature from south to north, has morphed into something more than recon. Optimally, if it turns out that there is a rogue Ukrainian unit headed toward Russia we’re hoping our guys can intercept them.”
“With what instructions?” Anne asked.
“COD,” McCord told her.
Commander’s operational discretion was one of the most dangerous acronyms coined in the rules-of-engagement playbook. After years of having their hands tied by regulations that refused to allow troops to fire unless fired upon first; that placed “no shoot” restrictions in areas where civilians were known to be located; that barred artillery fire against targets where there could be collateral environmental damage, such as hostile forces transporting oil or chemical weapons; President Midkiff had given the DOD some wiggle room. Officers could initiate an attack under the “urgent and immediate considerations” provision, but that would also be a mandated “multi-interview follow-up analysis,” which was an official euphemism for “court martial.”
“No wonder the major is pissed,” she replied. “Frankly, gentlemen, I don’t like this, either.”
“It is not a likable situation,” Williams pointed out.
“That’s a dodge,” Anne said.
“Do you have a better solution, Anne?” Williams challenged. “Should I pull them?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “We may have to wait, anyway, for this damn functionary in Sumy to get back to me—but … I just don’t know. We still don’t have any idea of the size of this Ukrainian force, do we?”
“None,” McCord replied. “Though we assume it’s squad-size, under a dozen men. Something that can move without attracting much attention and coalesce quickly.”
“So we’re evenly matched, but with a home-court advantage,” Williams said.
“That’s only while they’re in Ukraine,” McCord reminded him. “Once they’re in Russia, they’re equal—”
“Chase, even if they’re forced to cross the border, they cannot fire at Russians,” Anne cut in, hard. “That cannot be on the table.”
“Even if it’s to protect their own people?” McCord said.
“Which circles back to the idea that haste may not be the best policy,” Anne said.
“Anne,” Chase said, “I told Major Volner we’d take that possibility up with Minister Timoshenko if a border crossing was imminent.”
“Do you think the Russian defense minister will wait for us to handle an invasion force?” Anne asked.
“For a trade-off of some kind, he may,” Williams said. “I’ve texted Berry to see what the president is willing to give, if it comes to that.”
“He may find a deal advantageous in lieu of a shooting war, Anne,” McCord said.
“Even with a paramilitary unit in his country?”
“Yes,” McCord said. “Dead Ukrainians are still dead Ukrainians, regardless of where they were shot. That may be all Ukrainian loyalists in Crimea need to turn violent.”
“Timoshenko has a boss who may not be as sensible as you are,” Anne said.
“All right,” Williams cut in. “Both points taken, and all of it hypothetical. The reality of what we have is two teams whose footprint is relatively small and must remain as small as possible to avoid additional actors. I want to think about this, but next time you talk to Mike tell him that I will not only back his play, but I will take responsibility for it.”
“That’s admirable, Chase,” Anne said, “but it won’t help if something occurs that we haven’t discussed—which is if either side grabs our boys. Neither player will give them right back, and Midkiff will have your head after he denies all knowledge of anything.”
“Ug
ly truth about politics,” Williams agreed. “But it’s the best I can offer until we know more. Roger, get more. All hands on deck.”
“Chase, no one is slacking here,” McCord said.
“I know that, Roger, but—Anne, get Brian, Jim, everyone to call in any favor they have, go to trusted confidential informants in Moscow, find out more about any of the players at Sudzha. Lean on Kiev, see if any officers have been flagged for—Christ, anything.”
“Chase, we’re already doing a lot of that and coming up empty,” McCord said. “We’ve also had to be careful not to reveal too much of what we know. We don’t want any of that getting to the Kremlin, in particular. Timoshenko could lay waste to everything around Sudzha, including our team, and call it ‘maneuvers.’”
“I know,” Williams said more moderately. “I wasn’t questioning your methods. But our boys are in the dark right now, and the last time there was a hole in our—”
“Chase,” Anne said.
The director fell silent and looked at her face on the tablet. It wasn’t an admonition. It was concern. They were all still raw from the IED that took the life of Hector Rodriquez while he and Dawson were riding in that Humvee in Mosul. Dawson survived, and bitter survivor’s guilt was one reason Williams had let him go on about women and more alcoholic downtime than before. As long as it didn’t affect his job performance, as long as he saw Meagan Bruner once a week for what he called “my extended debrief,” Williams remained silent.
“Right,” Williams said. But he didn’t apologize. He wanted his intelligence director to be damned careful. “I’m heading back in a minute—”
“Chief, there’s not really anything you can do here at the moment—”
“It’s unseemly,” he said, not sure where the word came from.
“Should we call in the others?” Anne asked.
“Not yet,” Williams said. “Let’s wait until we have an ETA for the team in Sumy.”
“I’m gonna beat the bushes some more,” McCord said.
The intelligence director jumped off the conference as though he couldn’t get away too fast. Anne stayed.
“More than intel, I wish we had time to—”
She was interrupted by the music from Williams’s smartphone. It was lying on the bed and he went over to answer.
“It’s Dawson,” he told her as he picked up. “Go ahead, Brian.”
“I’m at the Nookery,” he said. “Too loud, I’m headed outside. But I just got a message from Matt that … sending. Will discuss when I’m away from here.”
Dawson hung up and Williams went back to his tablet, opened the secure link to Op-Center. Anne was automatically networked, and he downloaded a file marked “NSA-6/3/22:44.” It was an intercept from a Russian blimp operating in the border region near Kharkiv, with a label that was caption-translated:
Military-caliber long-range FM Wireless Audio-Video Transmitter and Receiver. Test Signal, WGS84 50° 0' 16" N, 36° 13' 53" E 50.004444, 36.231389 Geo URI geo: 50.004444,36.231389 UTM 37U 301613 5542798
“Any idea what that is?” Anne asked.
“A new, content-free signal that someone had to know would be picked up,” Williams said as he asked the tablet to pinpoint the coordinates.
“Kharkiv,” Anne said thoughtfully when a map appeared. “That’s not far from the base in Sudzha.”
“No, it’s not,” Williams said. “Neither is Sumy.”
The phone sang again and Williams grabbed it, put it on speaker. “Brian, did Matt have any context?”
“He said it’s Kharkiv—”
“Yeah, we’ve got that,” Williams told him. “Any information exactly where in Kharkiv?”
“Not yet,” Brian replied. “All they said is that there are no military units in that sector.”
“You better meet me at the office, Brian,” Williams said as he and Anne exchanged looks of grave concern, expressions that finished Dawson’s sentence the same way:
“… no military units in that sector that we know about.…”
Swiping away the connection, Williams grabbed the sports jacket he’d tossed on the bed and slammed the tablet back in his shoulder bag. As he hurried out the door, he realized where “unseemly” had come from: it was something his mother used to say when his father was working on something in their Valley Stream, Long Island, home—the lawn, a snow-covered walkway, washing the car—and he was on the floor reading a Classics Illustrated comic book.
Williams had been four or five at the time.
As he hurried to the garage, he couldn’t help wondering how many mothers were presently “running” how many government agencies throughout the nation’s capital.…
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Sumy, Ukraine
June 4, 9:06 AM
Route H-07 was the main highway to and from Sumy. Following a relatively straight northeasterly course, it made its way into Russia, through the town of Sudzha, and on its way—not always in a good state of repair, frequently crumbling, but navigable in the right vehicle.
Major Romanenko didn’t intend to take it past the border. Koval had rented a canvas-backed truck favored by the pro-Moscow paramilitary units that operated in this region, like the infamous Okkupaj Pedofilyaj thugs—“Occupy Pedophilia.” Based in nearby Belgorod, which was also just over the Russian border, these ski-masked youths patrolled at night in “white justice vehicles” and “white train cars”—descriptive of their ethnicity, not the actual color. They carried grips filled with guns, knives, crowbars, pliers, and cameras to record their activities against the gay population of Crimea and northeastern Ukraine.
Romanenko and his team had no interest in the neo-Nazi bands; they were one of many that preyed on homosexuals, Jews, the wealthy, the old, the anti-Putinists, the pro-Westerners. He and his men would create the impression of the singular brutality and madness of that group, because ordinary citizens would keep their distance … and sympathetic Russian officials would be inclined to look the other way.
“It is a dirty business,” young Tkach had said when the plan was laid out back in Kiev. As the most Western-influenced member of the group, he had the most trouble understanding inbred, generational insanity. He was a fierce patriot by the example handed down from his grandfather and his father, one who had grown up without the Soviet yoke; that was the only hatred he possessed, and he was uneasy even at play-acting this part.
Romanenko had instructed him to look past his distaste for the half-hour ride to the point where they would park the truck and continue to Russia as smoke and the onset of darkness hindered the enemy.
Romanenko had received the single “Go” signal on his computer, a broadcast that lasted two seconds, a distinctive C# to Eb progression on the musical scale that matched the recording on his computer. It was the only time those notes would be used. They were not a progression that occurred in any other prompt, or one that was likely to be sent by anyone who happened to intercept their signals or learn of their plan.
It meant that Captain Klimovich would be ready to move in two hours, and that Romanenko should watch the feed from Kharkiv: that would be the signal for his team to depart.
He informed the men by hotel phone. In a half hour they would leave as they had arrived, individually, and make their way on foot to the Sumka River. During the spring, the banks were a popular destination for locals and tourists, and they would not be noticed there. They would take an early lunch—during which they would follow events in Kharkiv on their phones, something many others would be doing—after which they would walk the bridge to the vehicle-rental facility on the opposite side, on Lermontova Street. That was where Koval had made a reservation, confirmed, for the truck. After that, they would pick up several afternoon newspapers to have at the ready, if needed.
The day threatened rain—common enough in this part of the world—in which case the men would have skipped lunch and posed as tourists, taking pictures and making the best of the bad situation. But the clouds passed and the sun
emerged, though a chill dampness lingered, some of it coming from windblown fountains. It felt, smelled, and tasted as if it arose from a freshly dug grave, an unpleasant blend of muddy earth and ancient air that carried the tinge of petrol, incinerated trash, and mold. Every smaller Ukrainian city had its distinctive sensory personality; all it took was a change in weather to stir it up. Only the occasional smell of gardens planted here and there along the river walk disguised the subtle but pervasive atmosphere.
The men were in sight of one another along the gently curving river. They were just finishing their lunch when the descending Bb to G# signal arrived. Each man turned to the app for local Sumy radio.
“… astonishing scene playing out in the industrial park there, as—a dozen? More? At least twelve tanks have rolled through the gates of an abandoned factory and into the busy lunch-hour streets of Kharkiv. There are unconfirmed reports that the column is being led by an officer who has been out of the public eye since the invasion three years ago—there is video now, and it clearly shows a man in a blue camouflage uniform standing in the open turret of the lead tank. Thirteen of them? There are thirteen tanks, and they are apparently under the command of the corps commander whom the press nicknamed the Fox, Captain Taras Klimoshenko, though a positive identification has not yet been made. This is simply—I used the word ‘astonishing,’ and that is the only word to describe this parade of vehicles making their way to the east, not pausing for traffic but moving slowly enough for everyone to get out of the way.
“Police are frankly baffled, they do not know what to do, have nothing to confront … tanks. The one officer who tried to block their passage was forced to dive away at a gesture from the commander, who indicated that they were not going to stop. And they did not stop. They are not stopping, according to this—again, astonishing video I am seeing live from Kharkiv.…”
Romanenko listened a little longer than confirmation had required. He listened to let the pride he felt infuse his blood, his breath, his sinew. He allowed his own imagination to fill in the news words as he shut the streaming audio.
Tom Clancy's Op-Center--Dark Zone Page 22
